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The Frying Pan and the Fire.

"Pssh, you wish, Mr. Mellon. Gotta go, don't wreck the house, don't wreck the car, don't wreck yourself. Love you!" And she was out the door. "So, bro..." he slung an arm around my waist. "What's up? You're not yourself today." He knows me too well.

The brain-scaldingly spicy aroma of 911 wings filled the house as we loaded up plates and clanked open a couple cokes. We plopped down on the couch under the blanket and scootched up close. God, it felt so good feeling him again...I dreamed about this every night that we'd been apart. And come to think of it, that's not all I needed last night...just thinking about his soft body and that too-much-sun-on-the-vineyard tan...GAH. Tried to squash that image, thinking hard hard hard about little old ladies at the grocery store, old socks, anything to kill my growing...excitement. Oop, too late, he already felt it. "Hey, what was that?" he felt down my thigh and much, much too close to..."Whoa, dude, too close," No, no, not too close! Touch me there, please! Why was I afraid of him? I didn't mind when it came to making him feel good, but it just...scared the devil out of me. He was slightly confused.

He slipped his hand under the waistband of my sweats, sliding his fingertips into the secure tight band of my jockeys. "Cisco, come on, man. Let me feel." I involuntarily jerked a little, jarred at the invasion of space. God, why did it bother me now? He'd touched me before, in his bedroom, that time when this all started. And how many times before that did I dream of that very thing? Maybe it was some sort of quarter-life crisis thingy. Like how did I know that what I'd been feeling all this time was real? Well, obviously it was real, you know, guys don't generally like do sex and stuff if they're not in love. For-real in love, not like those goth dudes that don't know what the hell they want to do, with the makeup and hair and what-not. I'm going to freak myself out into another panic attack.

"Man, I'm just...I don't know what it is. Wait, wait, did he just give them the penalty? Oh, that's some bull right there!" I noticed the little stripey man on the screen waving his arms and breaking up a dogpile. It was damn hard concentrating on relationship stuff AND the game. The stereotype is a stereotype for a reason, heh.

"Cisco, please," he set the plate of debris and wing parts on the coffee table and pulled me close. "You can't just push me away. What is it you need? I don't...shit, I don't know what I'm doing."

It was a solid question.

What did I want?

I tend to want lots of things at once, and sometimes they contradict each other. I want him to love me and hug me and touch every inch of me, but I can't wait to get as far away as I can. The weird is stifling. I know deep in the back of my mind that he's weirded out and...and...agh, the room is swirling. Colours like paint in a blender. A sick knot twists in my stomach and my chest feels tight, it's so hard to breathe. My head weighs so much more than the rest of me, and when I get up to back up off the couch--


Sound hits my ears before the light hits my eyes. Wah-wah, muddle muddle. Can't make it out. My head hurts. Ooh, but what's so warm? Blanket. What's on my head? Hand. Light flooding vision. Ceiling. Charlie.

Charlie. My boy. Blondie with the knitted brow.Taking care of me this time.

"Are you okay, man, what's up? Was that another attack? Should I get your inhaler?"

"Nuh. M'good. Up." He hefted me up and back onto the couch.

"When you're less dumb, we are so talking about this. That was another panic attack, wasn't it? Be honest, man."

I nodded and once he sat down, I buried my head in his shoulder.

"No, no, let me check your head." Pressure on the forehead, not what hit the floor first, but still sore. "Is that sore still?" More nodding. "Why did you freak out on me? I didn't mean to suffocate you or anyth-"

My head was clear enough to find his face and put my hand over his mouth.


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